


Demons Are Prowling Everywhere, Nowadays

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Series: Motel Hell Chronicles [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Husbands, Snow Demon, Yôkai, because Peter is all about the comfort, i'll stop now, if you know what i mean, like lots of comfort, nudge nudge, these boys I swear, wink wink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29498508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: “Peter?” Chris asks, tone dropping in worry. “Where is Stiles?”The werewolf takes a steadying breath, clenching clawed fingers into a fist. “What else can I do, Christopher?” he says, voice strained and throat tight.[The snow demon.]
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Motel Hell Chronicles [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742245
Comments: 17
Kudos: 141





	Demons Are Prowling Everywhere, Nowadays

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my goodness, hello! How are you? I missed you so much! Are you safe? Are you warm? Did you drink enough water and eat enough yummy foods today? Did you take a deep breath and tell yourself you are so, so lovely and matter so, so much? Because I wished all of those things for you! And I will wish them every day!
> 
> In honor of the ridiculous temperatures this week, I have written a thing for you to enjoy, so I really hope you do! It has been in the negative degrees here in Eastern Nebraska, and the power districts have been doing random grid power outages to help conserve energy. It hasn't happened in my grid yet, but I'm anticipating it soon. Here's to cuddling on the couch with my kitties and snuggling into a big ol' blanket!

Stiles shivers violently in Peter's arms as the man carries him into the motel room, kicking the door closed with his boot and setting the younger man on the bed. The spark's lips are blue, his nose and the tips of his fingers beginning to darken. Peter itches to strip the young man down and cover him with his abnormal body heat. But he'd made the mistake of trying to warm Stiles's hands earlier by cupping them in his own. Stiles had screamed and pulled his hands back immediately. The frigid cold inside him makes even the smallest amount of warmth painful.

He gathers the bed's blanket around the young man and crosses the room towards Stiles's bag, throwing things out of it angrily. “Where are your healing potions?”

“They won't work,” Stiles says softly, voice trembling as he grips the sides of the blanket and pulls them tighter around himself. A fine mist expels past his lips as he speaks, chilled breath meeting warm air. “Not for the cold. Only the frostbite. But it won't matter until I stop freezing.”

And he is—freezing, that is. From the inside out.

Stiles draws his legs up onto the bed slowly, wrapping the blanket around them and resting his chin on his knees. He looks small, curled in on himself. Peter feels helpless.

“Your spark,” Peter suggests. “Your flame. You can use it to burn the cold away.”

The younger man whimpers and shakes his head. “I tried. I can't reach it. I'm too cold.”

“Is there a potion you can make? Something that would warm you up?”

“There is,” Stiles says tiredly. He's exhausted from the shivering, the terrible ache in his limbs. “But it could kill me. I'd go into shock. And there's no guarantee it would counter the effects of...whatever this is.” He closes his eyes and just breathes for several long moments. The cold hurts his lungs, stings his throat. “I need you to do something.”

“Anything,” Peter says immediately, covering the distance between them in two strides and kneeling down in front of the younger man. His hands flutter over Stiles's trembling form but don't touch him, even over the blanket. “What do you need, baby?”

Stiles opens his eyes, setting a serious look on the older man. “There are letters. At home, hidden on the shelf with the books on water-based magics,” he says, and Peter fists the sheets on either side of the spark. “For you and Derek and the pack. Letters I wrote in case...in case...” Tears sting his eyes, freeze on his cheeks. He blinks away the frost of them and draws in a tremulous breath. “You have to make sure everyone gets them.”

“Don't,” Peter growls, sharp teeth baring as anger rises in his chest. “Don't you dare.”

“Peter—”

“Not another word,” Peter says, standing and taking out his phone. He dials Chris's number as he paces the small room, ignoring Stiles's weak protests while the line rings and rings. A sharp crackle, and then Chris answers.

“Peter?”

“Tell me what you know about Yokai,” the werewolf demands, grinding his teeth at the pause from the other end.

“They're very powerful Japanese snow demons,” Chris replies carefully. “And very rare to come across...Peter, are you in Japan?”

“No,” Peter says roughly, eyeing the younger man as he paces in front of the bed. “We're in Nebraska. We were heading home from the kelpie hunt in Cape Cod, and the weather patterns drew our attention. Sudden frigid temperatures and several disappearances. What do we need to do if a Yokai touches someone?”

The bluntness of the statement seems to have Chris at a loss for words for a moment, and Peter makes a noise deep in his throat to get the hunter's attention again.

“How long ago did the Yokai touch them?” Chris asks, tone suddenly clinical.

“Almost an hour.”

“Symptoms?”

“Shivering, frostbite in the nose and fingers, visible breath.” Stiles wheezes and coughs into his blanket cocoon. “Difficulty breathing.”

“Okay,” the hunter says, and the confidence in his voice makes Peter almost hopeful. “Shivering is good—it means that hypothermia hasn't set it. If the symptoms are counteracted within the first couple of hours, there's a good chance they won't have any lasting effects. You need to try and warm them up gradually—too quickly and they could go into shock. Blankets, warm clothes, heater, tea or coffee, whatever.”

Peter fiddles with the radiator near the door until heat starts to pour off of it, then shoulders his phone and grabs Stiles (blankets and all), placing him in front of it. “What else?”

“Does Stiles know any spells or have any potions he could use?”

The pit of Peter's stomach drops. “He said that a heating potion would be too sudden. And a healing potion won't help with the freezing, just the frostbite.”

“Mm,” Chris hums. “Can I talk to him? Maybe we can figure something out.”

Peter swallows, breathing heavily over the phone.

“Peter?” Chris asks, tone dropping in worry. “Where is Stiles?”

The werewolf takes a steadying breath, clenching clawed fingers into a fist. “What else can I do, Christopher?” he says, voice strained and throat tight.

“Shit,” the hunter curses. “Um, body heat. You can warm him up.”

“I tried. I can't touch him without hurting him.”

“A shower then,” Chris suggests. “Start the temperature low, then increase it little by little. Once he's comfortable with a warmer temperature, switch to a bath. It'll help with an even distribution of warmth through his body.”

Peter is annoyed that he doesn't know enough about human biology to know these things. “Thank you,” he says curtly. “I'll call you in an hour.”

“Peter—”

He hangs up before Chris can protest any further, tossing his phone on the bed and ignoring the immediate return call from the hunter. Falling down to his knees in front of his young, shivering spark, he digs his fingers into the edge of the blankets. “We need to get you into the shower.”

Stiles makes a small noise of protest. “I'm tired, Peter,” he whispers, swaying in front of the radiator. 

“I know,” Peter says desperately, swallowing the fear rising in his throat. “I know, my love. But this will make you feel better. We need to get you warm enough to use your spark. Then you can sleep, I promise.”

Stiles shivers and nods, holding back groans of pain as Peter helps him up and towards the bathroom. The werewolf's phone rings again, this time with Derek's name. Peter still ignores it.

“I'm going to turn the water on, and I need you to tell me when the temperature starts to feel warm—not painful, but comfortable enough to stand in. Okay?” Peter starts the shower as Stiles nods, helping the younger man closer so that he can stick a hand under the spray.

“That feels okay,” Stiles says, words slurring as his eyelids droop. Peter checks the water himself, pursing his lips when he finds that it's ice cold. 

“All right, sweetheart. We need to get you out of these clothes and into the shower. Come on.” Peter tries to touch him as little as possible as he helps him shuck the garments. Some of the fabric falls away in frozen chunks. 

Stiles is pale and shivering as he gets into the shower, stumbling as he steps over the lip of the tub. Peter tells him to sit, and he does, closing his eyes as the water cascades over his hair and down his face. He curls into himself again.

“I'm going to raise the temperature just a bit. Tell me how it feels.” Peter reaches forward, moving the dial the barest amount. Stiles makes a face and tenses at first but then relaxes as he gets used to the increase in temperature. They continue the painstakingly slow system until even Peter can feel warmth in the water's spray. And when it reaches a decent degree, the werewolf plugs the bathtub and switches to the faucet to fill it. 

Stiles uncurls himself little by little as the water soothes his aching muscles, as the tremors in his body become so minuscule he barely notices them. He lays back and sighs, sinking into the water as it rises. Peter shuts it off when it looks dangerously close to overflowing, sitting beside the tub near Stiles's head and watching him closely. 

“How do you feel, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, nearly shaking with restraint. He wants to reach out so badly.

“Better,” Stiles murmurs, taking time to breathe as his body soaks in the warmth of the water. He draws in a sudden sharp breath and opens his eyes, finding Peter's worried face and sitting up in the tub. “Are you okay, Peter? Fuck, I didn't even—That thing didn't hurt you, did it?”

Peter smiles and chuckles, leaning an arm on the lip of the tub. “I'm fine. No need to worry, my love.” He takes a vial out of his pocket, one that he'd taken from Stiles's bag, and holds it out. “Drink this.”

Stiles does, feeling the effects of frostbite melt away. Their fingers touch as he hands the vial back, and they both draw back with a premeditated wince. But after a moment, Stiles reaches forward again. He touches Peter's arm tentatively at first, running the pads of his water-wrinkled fingertips across his skin, then settling his whole palm against the older man's wrist.

“Oh,” he sighs, fingers tightening as he brings Peter's hand up to his face and closes his eyes. The warmth of it is still on the hotter side, but it doesn't burn like it did before. “You feel good.”

Peter sighs in relief, running a hand through his mate's hair and leaning forward to kiss his temple. His cheekbone. His jaw. His chin. Peter slots their mouths together and kisses the younger man over and over until they both need to break for air, then presses their foreheads together, closing his eyes and listening to Stiles breathe and breathe and breathe.

“We need to talk,” he says finally. 

Stiles sighs as he sits back, not releasing the older man from his weak grip. “About the letters?”

“No. The letters I can deal with. I have my own locked away, just in case,” Peter confesses, fingers ghosting along Stiles's collarbone and shoulder, then up his neck to trace the line of his jaw. “You can't do that again—you can't give in that easily.”

Stiles looks back at Peter with remorse. “I didn't see any other way, Peter.”

“There's always another way,” Peter says sharply, gesturing to the bath. “ _Clearly_ there is always another way, whether it's magical or mundane.”

“I wasn't thinking.”

“Obviously.”

“I'm sorry.”

Peter leans forward, grasps Stiles's face in both hands to make sure he has his full attention. “If you ever do that again—if you ever give up and try to leave me in this world without you...I will never forgive you, Stiles. Do you understand?”

Stiles nods quickly, surging forward to capture Peter's lips. “I'm sorry,” he whispers. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” He kisses the man in between apologies until Peter shushes him.

“I don't want you to be sorry, my love. I just want you to understand that I can't watch you give up. You are too strong, too brilliant for that. My heart wouldn't be able to stand it.”

Stiles swallows thickly and nods again. “Take me to bed, Peter.”

Peter reaches into the tub, gathering the younger man under his knees and behind his back to lift him out of the water and carry him into the other room. Instead of taking him to the bed, however, he sets him in the middle of the room, backing away from the dripping, shivering spark until his calves hit the end of the bed. He sits, studying Stiles carefully before saying, “Show me your flame, my love.”

Stiles hesitates, folding his arms over his chest and biting the inside of his cheek. But Peter smiles reassuringly, nodding as he rests his hands on his thighs. The younger man breathes in deeply, exhales slowly. Repeats. And repeats. And repeats. He feels the the bubble of heat in his abdomen, a low simmer of his magic. Closing his eyes, he concentrates. Breathes. _Believes_. His skin prickles, and his chest swells. 

With a gasp, his flames leap forward, engulfing him in warmth that extinguishes any notion of cold he might have felt. He feels them lick at his skin, like they're an entity all their own. They feel like home and comfort. They feel like Peter's touches and kisses, like his tongue and his teeth.

Stiles opens his eyes to find Peter standing in front of him. His clothes are gone, and the look on his face is pure adoration, wonder, hunger. 

“Beautiful,” the older man says softly, leaning in and capturing his lips in a hard kiss. The flames fade from his skin, but the warmth of them is still there. And then the warmth of Peter encompasses even that.

Peter leads him to the bed, tumbling on top of him and kissing every inch of skin until the younger man is writhing beneath him. He opens Stiles slowly, stretches him wide until he can slide inside with one long stroke. Stiles's mouth falls open, moan after moan falling from him as Peter thrusts into him, again and again. The older man sucks marks into Stiles's neck, the place where the Yokai had grabbed him, making it known who the spark belongs to.

They'll face the monster again, take it down as they've taken down so many others. Together.

Peter wraps a hand around Stiles's cock and pumps it in time with the jerk of his hips. The younger man arches his back as he comes, tightening around Peter and clenching his fingers into the sheets beneath him as the werewolf finishes with a few more rough thrusts inside him. They lay together and pant into each other's mouths until Peter finds the strength to carefully pull out of the younger man and stretch out beside him. 

“We're going to have to deal with that thing tomorrow,” Peter says breathlessly, turning his head to look at the spark.

Stiles turns and stares back at him. “Tomorrow,” he agrees, chest heaving as he nods. “But we should really make sure I'm warmed up enough before then.”

Peter smirks and nods. “I can handle that.”

BONUS SCENE:

Peter's phone rings as he ducks out of the way of a torrent of icicles. He grits his teeth as he sees the caller ID and answers with a curt, “Not the best time, nephew.”

“Peter, I told you not to go after that thing again!” Derek shouts from the other end of the phone. The signal is weak, and his voice crackles with every other word. 

“There were two more disappearances last night,” Peter explains, gritting his teeth as the demon sets its sights on Stiles. The younger man manages to evade another attack, striking at the thing with a ball of fire. The demon yells furiously, waving its arms around to create wind tunnels that knock them both to the snowy ground. “We couldn't wait for you.”

“Don't—” The rest of Derek's words are lost as the snow demon knocks Stiles aside hard enough that he doesn't get back up right away.

“Stiles!” Peter shouts, dropping his phone in the snow and running towards the younger man as best he can. The snow reaches up to mid-thigh, and it takes much longer than he would like to get to his mate, who is nearly buried in the snow. He pulls Stiles up, and the young man groans, blinking and grimacing as blood drips into one of his eyes. 

“Stiles, look at me.” The spark does, as best he can, eyebrows drawn together as Peter takes his shoulders and turns him towards the demon. He presses himself to Stiles's back, wrapping his arms around his middle and bracing him. “I believe,” he says against the shell of Stiles's ear, closing his eyes and pushing every ounce of faith into the younger man. “I believe, Stiles. Now...” Peter's eyes snap open. “Be my flame.”

The smirk on Stiles's face as his breath catches is almost sinister. He raises his arms, palms facing towards the demon that's charging them, and releases a burst of fire so powerful that he slams back into Peter. The werewolf digs his feet into the ground, keeping them in place as power emanates from his mate. He holds tight to his belief, begs it to stay strong for Stiles. And it does.

With a final shout from the young man, the fire suddenly extinguishes, a scorched path in the snow all the evidence that is left of the demon. Stiles and Peter breathe heavily for a few moments before the younger man's arms fall down to his sides. He wavers on his feet a bit but stays standing, looking over his shoulder at Peter with a grin. “I think it's over.”

Peter nods. “Are you sure?”

Stiles looks back at the empty path where the Yokai stood only moments before. “Pretty sure. I can't sense it anymore, so unless it's hiding really well...”

“Okay,” Peter says, satisfied with the answer. He looks towards the path that they took to get to the large clearing. “We need to—” He's cut off as Stiles grabs his chin and turns his head to face him, planting a hard, messy kiss to his lips that nearly misses its target. Peter grunts and then sighs into the kiss, wrapping his arms around the younger man and holding tight. 

Stiles breaks the kiss with a chuckle, staring back at the older man with an unreadable expression. “Thank you.”

Peter searches the spark's face. “For what, my love?”

Stiles sniffs as the cold air makes his nose run. “For believing in me.”

A small smile finds Peter's lips, and he runs a hand through Stiles's hair, gripping the short hairs at the back of his neck. “I will always believe in you, my spark.”

They kiss again and again until the cold makes Stiles shiver, and then he makes a path for them through the snow with a focused flame from his hand. His other hand tangles with Peter's as the man follows behind. Never wavering.

“We need to invest in some warmer clothes, if there are more like that thing out here,” the werewolf ponders as they take their time in the cold.

“Well, if I'd known we'd be chasing a Yokai through central Nebraska...” Stiles starts, ranting as they continue towards town.

In the distance, a shrill ringing sounds from the depths of the snow. Peter's phone lies buried and forgotten, several missed calls lighting up the screen until a gentle snowfall covers it completely.

**Author's Note:**

> You glorious being, I'm so very glad you are here! You are so important, did you know? I hope you are getting all those beautiful vibes I asked the universe to send your way. Because you deserve them! You, cosmic babe, are one of a kind, and I bet the world can't wait to see what you do! It's going to be awesome. How could it not?
> 
> Have the most amazing day, my friend!  
> I love, love, love you!


End file.
